


Baseless

by viceroyvonmutini



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Implied Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceroyvonmutini/pseuds/viceroyvonmutini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We are such stuff<br/>As dreams are made on; and our little life<br/>Is rounded with a sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baseless

**Author's Note:**

> This was never meant to happen but it's here. 
> 
> Interestingly I'm not that keen on the idea of Winter Soldier-ing Shaw but I thought it would be fun to explore in words anyway. 
> 
> The Tempest happens to be my third favourite Shakespeare.

 

The world is a series of opposites.

Black. White.

Good. Evil.

Failure. Success.

Anger. Calm.

Violence. Peace.

Pain. Reward.

Actions lead to different outcomes.

Shaw-her name was Shaw-controlled her actions. This she knew.

The outcomes were inevitable.

No amount of struggle could change the outcomes. The outcomes she, Shaw, could choose.

Shaw controlled her actions.

 

Obedience was Peace.

Rebellion was War.

Shaw used to rebel. This she remembers.

She remembers days of pain, scars that tinge with the reminder of her choices as she readies a sniper on the edge of a building, 55 stories up in the cold of January. 

The cold, she learns, aggravates old wounds. Makes them stiff. Makes them tingle with left over agony. An old wound-a scar she has had for longer than she cares to remember, perhaps from before the pain-lingers on her abdomen.

It hurts.

It hurts even in the warmth.

She pushes it to the side and focuses on her task.

Obedience is Peace.

Rebellion is War.

 

Shaw has never missed a target.

Failure is unacceptable.

Success is assured.

She missed once. The memory claws at the back of her mind each time she readies a gun at a target she knows nothing of. Only that they must be eliminated.

She doesn’t remember what happened when she left a bullet far wide of the assigned target: a projection, a paper target not even real.

She missed.

She doesn’t remember what happened next: the memories blurred into one and she can’t distinguish between what is real and what is not.

She thinks most of it is real.

Her back twinges as she pulls herself up over a wall.

 

She is the best. This she knows.

She was the best before- a before that lingers at the back of her shadowy mind- and she is the best now.

Shaw is ruthless: a machine. She takes orders and expects something in return. She takes orders and is greeted with new weapons, new food, and greater comforts: enough to satisfy her service.

Shaw does not work for free.

She was asked if she was a robot once- was this from before? She doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter- and sometimes she thinks she is.

Her left shoulder burns as she clings to a window ledge in the winter rain, feet dangling 700 feet from the ground. Dropping the gun in her right hand she lifts herself up, falling into the empty corridor with surprising grace.

Failure is unacceptable.

Success is assured.

 

People used to speak to her once. Now she is existent only in silence.

She prefers it this way.

Anger is volatile.

Calm is precision.

She remembers a voice that spoke through the haze of what she remembers like a bell calling her to fight. It is always there. In her dreams. In her head. But it is real.

The noise brought her pain.

The silence brings her isolation.

There are others around her, working for old man Greer but she is the favourite. This she knows.

She is the best.

They don’t talk to her if they can help it. Her body is perfection, littered with scars and wounds that never quite healed under layers of tissue but she doesn’t register the damage.

Greer is her sole contact.

He is not the voice in her head.

She knows Greer has his own voice: logically she knows it is the same one that coached her through days and days of violence and thrashing and anger and a high-pitched scream that she doesn’t quite recognize.

Shaw has two voices.

 

The second voice is real. This is new.

She thinks it came from before- a time she isn’t sure was real but doesn’t want to go back to because the haze is wide and she skirts at its fringes like a cat stalking it’s prey.

She knows this is a lie. She is wary. She is the prey.

It sung to her in her dreams. Sometimes it broke the haze and she remembers anger: blinding fury but at what she doesn’t know.

The second voice is real.

She recognizes it as it speaks.

For the first time in a long time, Shaw misses.

Anger is volatile.

Calm is precision.

 

She spends her punishment wondering what called upon her anger, usually so delicately contained.

 

Greer summons her and she obeys.

Good is bad.

Evil is good.

She remembers lessons on Good and Evil. She has never really cared for Right or Wrong.

She knows she can ignore such social constructs that do nothing but irritate her, but she thinks she wants to be Right.

She thinks before she might have been.

Greer knows this.

The world is separated into those that she fights for, and those that she kills.

Shaw fights for Greer.

 

She hears the second voice again and this time she is prepared.

She is prepared for the noise of the voice: she is prepared to accept the reality behind the haze.

She is not prepared for the attack.

She is pinned against a wall by a carefully placed arm that lacks any real strength but holds no hesitation and she struggles, hissing and anger flaring because now is the time to be volatile.

‘Sorry sweetie.’

 

Good is bad.

Evil is good.

 

Shaw likes isolation.

Shaw is not to be caged.

She wakes up on a haze- she is unsure of herself and she reacts- and her hands claw at the metal fencing and she stays silent and refuses the food while they watch.

 

They cage her.

She is calm.

She says little.

They leave her food.

She eats it when they are gone.

 

They talk to her.

The man-with a limp, a deadly weakness that she notes within the first 5 seconds of their initial meeting- talks to her of morals. Of the books surrounding her. Of a woman who fought just like her on the opposite side.

Her name was Sameen.

He speaks in hushed tones with a pity that creeps into his voice and she flares in rage because it is he who caged her and now he pities her for it.

The man- a statue like her with an eye for detail and she understands he poses the biggest threat- speaks little. She appreciates this. He sits in silence watching her and she moves not a muscle.

She has always enjoyed the still.

His eyes are hard but he has seen loss.

Sometimes he looks at her like she is something he has lost.

She needs to find a way out.

 

The woman is strange.

She stands, she never sits, and she watches. The man-John. His name is John- his eyes did not make her squirm but the woman makes her want to move. Her eyes catalogue every scar, stopping on all the ones that she remembers.

Shaw’s hands instinctively scratch at one from before and the woman barely looks.

She has seen those scars before.

The woman speaks little, occasionally to the man with the limp- Harold. Harold Finch she learns- and shares glances with John.

She never speaks to Shaw.

Her eyes simply watch.

 

She tries to escape.

She doesn’t make it out of the door. She feels the light pinch of a needle as it pierces the skin of her neck and she’s falling.

She hits something warm and soft.

 

Obedience is Peace.

Rebellion is War.

 

She starts to exercise in front of them.

They watch.

Harold is still the only one to speak to her.

He encourages the woman.

The woman shakes her head.

 

She makes it as far as second floor.

She figures this is some form of safe house and resolves to find its location.

The needle pinches at her skin and she’s falling so lightly and this time the haze is a little less looming.

 

Rebellion is Peace.

Obedience is Comfort.

 

She bides her time.

The woman stays with her more and more.

The woman’s name is Ms. Groves.

 

Shaw says nothing.

The woman walks in and stands, locking the gate behind her.

‘Ms. Groves.’

The woman flinches.

 

Failure is unacceptable.

Success is assured.

 

The woman has her own voice.

She tilts her head to the side; a tiny movement Shaw has plenty of time to observe and whispers in a hushed tone that Shaw strains to hear. It is then Shaw realizes the woman has her own voice.

 

The woman turns away just once.

The windowpane rattles with the force of the wind outside, howling in the dark.

Shaw takes her chance.

The woman places her down on the makeshift bed gently and begins tending to her wounds with a care that Shaw isn’t familiar with, and it does nothing but stir unrest in her head as her body aches.

The woman never looks up.

Shaw stares.

The woman resets her shoulder.

The woman’s nose is broken.

Her hands graze her abdomen and something feels less painful.

 

Failure is possible.

Success is desirable.

 

The woman is tired.

Shaw notices this.

Shaw fears she might be accepting her imprisonment.

‘You have a voice.’

She asks once.

The woman starts.

Shaw waits for a reply.

A slow nod is delivered.

‘What does He say to you?’

The woman’s eyes are wide and hesitant and her body is tense, like any movement may startle Shaw.

Shaw is simply trying to gather information.

‘She.’

 

John sits as he watches over her, eyes scanning a book.

‘Where is Ms. Groves?’

John looks up.

‘Root.’

Shaw narrows her eyes.

‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m always here.’

Shaw stands and John watches the movement; watches as she walks over and grabs him by his collar and forces him to stand.

She punches him.

 

Anger is volatile.

Calm is precision.

 

The woman comes back.

‘Root.’

The woman looks at Shaw.

‘Do you prefer Root?’

The question is almost amicable.

‘Call me Root.’

Shaw nods once.

‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m always here.’

Shaw frowns.

‘Why am I here?’

Root doesn’t respond immediately and Shaw wonders if she’s done something unexpected.

She catalogues the reaction for later use.

Root looks as if she might say something of worth, but she doesn’t.

‘Because we want you here.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

The woman leaves.

Harold comes back.

 

She tries to escape again.

This time she heads to the rooms either side of her, finding an intricate set up of computers like the ones she was familiar with under Greer.

She smashes each one.

A needle presses into her skin and she’s falling.

She’s falling like she wants to escape.

 

‘You watched me.’

The woman’s eyes drift to her face.

‘You watched me smash the computers.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you stop me?’

Root pauses.

‘Because one of us would have done it eventually.’

 

Anger is acceptable.

Calm is preferable.

 

‘Tell Harold to stop lecturing me.’

The woman chuckles and Shaw’s body tenses.

Root watches the reaction but says nothing.

 

‘Your voice: do you listen to it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does it hurt?’

Root doesn’t respond immediately.

She sits now, resting on the window ledge as her eyes focus on Shaw. ‘Sometimes,’ she whispers.

‘When you don’t listen?’

‘When I don’t want to listen.’

 

Shaw’s nights are filled with haze.

Shaw remembers and tries to forget, days and days of haze and pain and it all blurs into something intangible but it hurts.

The voice soothes her.

The woman comes back, her hand wrapped in gauze.

‘Where did that come from?’

Root looks shocked by the question but softens.

‘I had a fight.’

‘Did you win?’

Root shrugs.

‘Who were you fighting?’

Root pauses.

‘Greer.’

 

Good is bad.

Evil is good.

 

The nights get worse.

She hates to sleep but the voice is there. Not the voice that tolls loud and harsh and takes over her senses like a battle cry but the soft voice. The voice she knows is real and close and one she hears everyday.

 

The woman visits everyday without fail.

 

She tosses and turns and scratches at her skin until blood crawls under her nails but it doesn’t make it stop.

Her arms are restrained and she jolts and thrashes violently because restraint hurts and pain shoots through her like lightening and her eyes shoot open at the shock.

The woman holds her wrists, restraining them as she looks at Shaw with curious eyes and eyes that scream worry but Shaw won’t accept that.

Shaw’s breathing is heavy.

Root stands and reaches for a first aid kit.

She pushes Shaw back on the bed and Shaw lies still and obedient as the woman dresses her wounds that trail up her stomach like cobwebs.

She doesn’t ask questions.

 

Good is.

Evil is.

 

‘Are you good?’

Shaw has resigned herself to her imprisonment.

Her escape will be far in the future or she will die here in the hands of the…in the hands of these people who insist on keeping her here.

Root tilts her head.

‘No.’

‘Am I good then?’

Root smiles softly and Shaw’s eyes follow the movement.

‘Yes.’

Her voice is barely above a whisper.

 

‘So are you my enemy?’

Shaw asks John nonchalantly as they play a game of cards.

‘No Shaw.’

‘Then why am I imprisoned?’

John stops his actions, lifting his eyes from his card hand to regard Shaw carefully.

‘Because if not you’ll leave.’

‘And?’

John shakes his head.

 

‘Why can’t I leave?’

She tries Root. Root is softer.

Root still never comes any closer to her except to tend to her injuries, mostly self-inflicted.

She smiles sadly.

‘Do you want to leave?’

‘Yes.’

Shaw responds immediately.

‘Where would you like to go?’

Shaw doesn’t have an answer.

 

Her nights are lighter.

 

‘Your voice.’

Root’s attention drifts from the window to Shaw, acknowledging she has heard.

‘Is it good?’

‘Yes.’

The response is immediate.

 

Shaw doesn’t want to leave.

She doesn’t have anywhere to go.

 

‘Will I ever be free to leave this room?’

Root’s smiles are so soft.

‘Maybe someday.’

 

‘You stay with me while I sleep.’

‘Yes Shaw.’

‘Why?’

Root shrugs.

‘You look like you need the company.’

 

Root sleeps less than Shaw.

 

‘Harold.’

The man stops. Their conversations are usually fruitless and result in Shaw becoming angry.

He always listens.

‘Am I good?’

‘Yes.’

He responds with little thought.

‘Are you good?’

‘Sometimes I doubt myself.’

‘How do you know?’

Harold sets down the tray of food.

‘What do you remember Ms. Shaw?’

She frowns.

‘Nothing.’

He nods once.

He doesn’t move immediately, gazing at seemingly nothing in front of him.

He makes to leave.

He stops before he reaches the door.

‘When you remember.’

Shaw throws the food onto the ground.

 

Shaw lies still in the dark.

‘Root.’

It’s not a question. She knows she’s there.

‘I don’t want to remember.’

Shaw is tired.

‘I know.’

 

‘I don’t like being caged.’

Root chuckles.

Her mood is light. Shaw notices that this is a rare occurrence.

Shaw prefers these days.

‘I know Shaw.’

‘Can I get a punching bag?’

It’s the first time she has asked for anything.

‘Of course.’

The reply is easy and something like a weight is lifted from Shaw’s shoulders.

 

Shaw hits the bag again, arms dripping with sweat as Root watches.

She stops.

‘I heard you.’

Root tilts her head in question.

‘In my dreams. You were there. I thought you weren’t real.’

Root doesn’t have an answer.

Shaw doesn’t want one.

 

Shaw wakes with a start.

She stands and walks to the window, watching the city below her in the dead of night.

‘What time is it?’

‘Early.’

Shaw nods.

 

‘Who is Root?’

The question comes casually but John stops at once.

He was cleaning his gun, Shaw watching intensely wishing she had her own.

‘Maybe you should ask her.’

 

Root comes in, hair matted with blood and clothes torn.

Her usual leather jacket is nowhere to be found.

It’s late.

She comes in to visit Shaw anyway.

 

‘Who are you?’

Root’s eyes lift from the book she was reading.

Root doesn’t have an answer.

‘Who are you to me?’

 

Root’s hand is on her the moment she awakens and she recognizes the soft touch.

Her breathing is heavy.

She doesn’t look at the woman.

She lies back down as the woman watches, perched on the side of the bed as she pulls her hand back in to herself.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘About what?’

Shaw’s reply is gruff.

‘The scars.’

Shaw takes a deep breath.

This she can do.

‘Which one?’

 

It becomes a ritual.

Shaw will wake and Root will be there. It worries her that she has learnt to find comfort in the presence.

Root will never ask her about her dreams but her hands will trace a scar and Shaw will tell a story.

Some of them she makes up and Root laughs, Shaw’s tone never lifting from its natural deadpan as she recalls grand deeds done in the deepest jungles or the coldest of ice caps but something in Shaw stirs at the sound and she feels like she’s doing good.

Some of them she doesn’t. Some of them are new: ones she gained on missions for Greer. Some of them pierce through the things she’s forgotten and she tells a story in words that barely make a sentence as she tries to think past the cold and the pain and the emptiness.

Root never asks her about the scars from before.

 

Shaw wakes up screaming, a sound she barely recognizes and Root is there.

She hesitates before sitting on the bed as Shaw calms her breaths.

‘Tell me.’

‘About what?’

‘The dream.’

 

‘I don’t want to remember.’

‘I know.’

 

‘Am I good?’

‘Yes.’

 

Her name is Sameen.

**Author's Note:**

> Our revels now are ended. These our actors,  
> As I foretold you, were all spirits, and  
> Are melted into air, into thin air:  
> And like the baseless fabric of this vision,  
> The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,  
> The solemn temples, the great globe itself,  
> Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,  
> And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,  
> Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff  
> As dreams are made on; and our little life  
> Is rounded with a sleep.
> 
> The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148-158


End file.
